Chapter 383: Novel Flavor |
Everyone underestimates Non-Martial Skills—especially the simple fucks with Martial Paths. Yeah, I guess Cooking isn't as powerful as your Sword Proficiency. Whoop-de-whoop. I'm glad you figured that out. What's this? You can kill a thousand people with a sword in the time it takes me to make a single pancake? Oh, you must be really, really strong. Quick, let me hire someone to suck you off or ram something into your hole of preference—up to you, really.
Really, we should just consider all Non-Martials slaves and treat them like shit. They’ll never be of any use. The only useful skills are for war and combat and magic used for war and combat, right? Right?
No! Wrong! Fucking wrong! Entirely and deeply fucking wrong! In fact, the dullest, easiest people to kill are simple-fuck Martials with unfused skills. Because where's the surprise? Huh? Oh, your Sword Proficiency is Legendary? Your Pyromancy is Legendary? I sure wonder what all that does. I sure wonder how I can counter that. It has to be really surprising. It has to be real esoteric and confusing. It must be a real special skill you have there, something no one's ever seen before. Oh, oh, look, you’re swinging your sword super fast, and there are ghostly echoes of your sword that let you perform a hundred cuts at the same time! How in the fuck shall I counter that?
Certainly not with my Cooking Skill—my pathetic little Cooking Skill that’s a joke! My worthless, sad-fuck Cooking Skill that’s fused with Dimensionality and lets me literally COOK SPATIAL MANA and distill the flavor of a certain place. Nope, useless. Aside from the fact that I can use my pots as teleportation points too. No way I can just jump down a pot or a bowl and get away from you and murder you in your sleep.
Unimaginative fucks.
You're supposed to use skills. Yeah, they're not as pure and well-understood as common Skill Evolutions—That’s the point. We know what to do when running into the thousandth dumbshit with Adamantine Aegis! We know what to do when facing someone with Manticore Style Spear Proficiency. So many people have those skills that I don’t even need to think before I solve those problems. Trailblazing gives you an edge; uncharted territory means that a lot of people don’t know what to expect. Surprise matters! It matters a whole fucking lot. Surprise and weird evolutions are the same way that a sniveling rat-fuck like me is still alive after fleeing across Integration for centuries—because what you can do and someone else can’t is an absolute advantage that gets you out of a bad situation even if your enemy is a Tier or two higher.
You wanna know how many Vanguards I cucked out of an easy victory by asking for a last meal and then throwing myself into the pot? You know how funny it is when their eyes go wide? It’s hilarious! Because they got one trick: smash me up close. And I have all the tricks in the world.
So, diversify, dumbshits. Diversify and get yourself some new tickets out of death. Because you’re gonna need them bad! And also, you’ll be surprised how unique the taste of a place is when it seeps into your food. I won’t say good, but unique.
—The Realmrunner
Novel Flavor
Shiv’s opinion of his new skill swung from hate to love in a whiplash of an instant. His nihilistic fire started as an annoyance and now glowed and crackled between his fingers like a glorious treasure. Flames he once thought to be hollow now burned with scintillating brilliance, and seared magic and matter alike into novel consumables.
The potstickers were easy to get done, another blessing provided by his new skill. The Chef Unwavering ensured that he did things perfectly, with absolute focus, so long as he was committed to something in the kitchen. Now, the essence of the kitchen was contained within his Pyromancy, and what his flames touched, his scintillation infected. He wielded temperature and intensity like it was a scalpel, and so the gray flames combusted first within the potstickers, readying the chives, the cabbages, the mushrooms, and the ground pork that was stored at the meal's heart. The central flame also stood as a bulwark against its kindred, for the heat of the outside was another degree of intensity. The dough was fried and hardened until it was crusted in a layer of near gold that was as tantalizing to look upon as it was to consume.
After which, he severed the potsticker clean through the middle using his cutting aura. There, steam erupted in twin pillars, both clashing against each other, commingling like serpents twisting their sinuous bodies until they were merged into a twine. With the exhalation of heat came a blast of pure flavor. The scents and ingredients within the potstickers were taken to the point of near perfection, and the winds carried a harmony of flavors: the inviting dough, the tasteful vegetables, the filling meat, and that incomprehensible sauce of smoked philosophy harnessed as fuel. But there was still something missing, something higher. Shiv's instincts in the kitchen had also been honed, yet he couldn't quite sense what this meal was bereft of.
“That smell…” Yellowbelly sniffled at the air, his immense snout drawing in so much wind that he created a minor typhoon. The others tasted it too, but kept their reactions muted. “You added something to the potsticker. What even is that bloody scent? I have neither word nor memory of it—and I possess both in ample supply.”
Shiv didn't reply verbally. Instead, his twin bodies—one, the Severed Shadow; another, a resurrection—gathered the bifurcated potsticker and carried it in opposing directions. His physical body brought one half to Candles and offered it to him to sample. His Severed Shadow did the same thing, bestowing a gift of first tasting upon Marikos.
“See if you like it,” Shiv said. “You honored me with your assistance. I’ll honor you with the right of this tasting—and the naming of the flavor.”
Marikos stilled as he leaned down, his long neck almost serpent-like, gliding through the air as he lowered himself to examine his half of the potsticker directly.
“Sir Marikos,” Tallowine called out, sounding uncertain.
“It's not poison or venom or anything,” Shiv reassured. “That's not how my skills work, and that is not how a chef does things—not to decent customers. I think this is an infusion of Philosophy. My flames burned away at our perspectives and somehow distilled all that into this potsticker. So if you all want to know what your collective worldviews taste like, here it is.”
“An edible philosophy,” Marikos hummed a note of near laughter. He shook his head in disbelief. “I fear this meal may be bordering on the over-intellectual for me, Deathless.”
Such words provoked Shiv into a calculated scowl. “I'm going to let that one go, Sir Marikos, but if I hear you speak ill of my guest once more, we're going to have problems.” His sudden threat caught Marikos off guard—as he had hoped. “Don't insult any of the Gate’s guests, please. Not in my presence. Not even yourself. You deserve more dignity for your deeds.”
Understanding flooded Marikos's gaze and heart, and Shiv's Rhetoric felt a pull unlike any other as he wrenched an ocean's worth of respect and affection for defending Marikos from his own self-deprecation.
“I apologize,” Marikos said, bowing his head. His mind quivered, as did his voice; his core was wrought by a storm of warmth. “Allow me to offer my greatest apology and my most honest praise after I consume this offering.”
And as large as the dumpling was, vaster than any one of Shiv's baseline bodies, it was little more than finger food for Marikos. He pinched it using a clawed thumb and index finger before dropping it down along his wide tongue. And then came the savoring and the silence. Marikos said nothing. Shiv waited, his own breath bated, his own tension drawn. It was like a string inside of him was being pulled to the point of breaking. Cooking was an art, and it held all the vulnerabilities that art demanded. To fail in your pursuit of artistry and be a disappointment to another and yourself in turn is a wound you had to take directly upon your ego.
“But take it, you must,” the Harbinger said. “For we are sculptors of ourselves, and the act of sculpting begins in the form of deformation of stone. The rawness must break for a true shape to take form. Let his honesty terrify us if it must. We will face it, and we will improve. Always and forever, improvement before self-delusion.”
Shiv watched as something else filled the insides of Marikos' emotional core. It was a feeling that Shiv had never seen before, one he couldn't decipher, as unique as the infusion of philosophy's flavor into a tangible meal.
“This potsticker is satisfying. Biting into it feels like cracking an egg and tasting flavors hot and delightful on the inside. But there is something else in the aftertaste, something I cannot shake.” Marikos chuffed as if a drunkard trying to find soberness. “I like the potsticker itself, but this aftertaste… I don't have words. I think I need another.”
Shiv let out half a breath. His relief wasn't complete, but when someone asked for another helping, it usually meant that they weren't full—and that was the fundamental purpose of being a chef. Before taste, before aesthetic, before any kind of expression or design, you needed to satisfy hunger itself.
So said the best chef Shiv ever knew.
With a sweeping gesture, Shiv sent an arc of flame through the nearest potsticker and kept it going. He guided his fire like it was a whip, striking and frying with pristine precision. His gray flames flowed like a moving river, and soon the entire tray was swept through, turned from raw ingredients into finalized meals. Shiv would have regarded the skill as Heroic for that feat alone, without being beholden to a pot or major infrastructure. The way and his needs when it came to cooking were altered irrevocably and most marvelously.
“Wait,” Marikos suddenly said. “I am getting a boost from your potsticker.”
Shiv grunted in acknowledgment. “That comes with The Chef Unwavering. What’s the notification say?”
“That my satiety and endurance have been greatly enhanced,” Marikos proclaimed. He let out a rumbling laugh. “What a fool I was to be so hesitant. I would have devoured that potsticker for the boost to my endurance alone. Wait, hold, Deathless. You took a bite out of the tray earlier, and I see more of its fry. Did you gain an improvement from the table itself?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, but it’s nothing special.” Shiv pulled the notification back up.
Your total carrying capacity has been increased by 0.5%.
Shiv snorted. “It just lets me carry a bit more stuff, is all.”
“Did it taste good?” Marikos pressed.
That made Shiv think for a bit. “I… uh… it was different. Like you said. The tray itself doesn't have a taste. The texture is nice and feels good to chew. It's like something between really lean meat and also a layer of seaweed, but the only true flavoring is smoked philosophy.”
A beat of hesitation seized Marikos. “Can I try it?”
“The tray?”
“Yes.”
Shiv blinked and turned to regard the Dragon-Brokers. “You fine with me cooking this thing? I got it from you.”
Instead of answering in the positive or the negative, all four Dragon-Brokers regarded him in mutual displays of utter befuddlement.
“Only if we get to have a bite as well,” Know-Nothing said, adjusting his monocle as if it wasn’t working right. “We wish to discover what our philosophy tastes like as well.”
Garrulous gave a grumbling assent.
With permission granted, Shiv broadened his flames, unleashing it in a wider torrent that drowned the entire tray and the foundations of stone and metal surrounding it. His firestorm glittered ever brighter, and the flame atop his palm swirled like a small star exploding. All that lacked Magical Resistance was transformed into a consumable, and the textures, though different, were inviting and glistening like meals just fresh from a stove, pot, or a grill. But that made Shiv's mind wander further. He questioned if he could turn mana into a meal as the Nihilist claimed.
The skill laughed. “Discover and explore, then. Imagination alone will get you nowhere.”
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That was all the incentive Shiv needed. He directed his Pyromancy against a portion of his Biomancy in an unnatural instant, clashing his twin mana fields together. Where his Pyromancy was something that needed to be fueled and then shaped, his Biomancy was rigged to his person, a protective bulwark that functioned as a fortress and a set of limbs. On top of that, it too was a Heroic Skill, one that regenerated from strain at a staggering rate.
The first thing Shiv felt was a gnawing sting. The pain was dull, but it built in intensity like holding one's finger against a naked flame. As fast as it burned, it also converted, and though Shiv's nihilistic flames burned hot, the Biomancy he possessed was a bulwark indeed. It took a staggering amount of heat to even begin eating through the mana hydra’s scales, but after enough time and with the final strain of effort, the flames finally bit through.
Shiv's eyes widened in avarice as a piece of one of its necks wrinkled, hardened, and then tumbled free, sloughing from the rest of the mana field like a crispy layer of skin. It clattered free from Shiv, bouncing off the ground like a crystallized length of jerky. “Okay. I’ve mutilated myself for an advantage before—even tried to feed my own corpse to a fae. But this is another level of felling weird.”
As Shiv used his Legion of Self to guide his physical body and attend to the needs of his guests, his Severed Shadow picked up that fried length of Biomancy jerky and held it up in the glow of the mana core. It was glistening, gleaming, brilliant, and well done. Shiv wanted to bite into it to hear it crack, to know what biomancy tasted like, if it had any taste unto itself, or if it was going to be just like the tray.
As he did this, his Pyromancy hovered nearby, a diminished orb compared to what it once was. All magical evolutions changed one's mana field. Some expanded your fields outright, making them stronger and denser while also encompassing a far larger area. Others made your fields more modular, more flexible, or changed their architecture so much that you were capable of stealth, subterfuge, or simply asymmetric warfare. Uva knew that evolution well.
Legion of Self 158 > 163
But then there were the quantitative and qualitative changes, such as when a bound mana field was in use. Shiv's Chronomancy could break and reform in an instant, but his Harbinger was fueled by emotion, and it endured. It functioned as a lingering set of armor, albeit one most fragile.
And now the nihilistic flame he wielded was something else entirely. It needed to be kindled, to be fed by philosophy first, before it could unleash, and it carried within it the wrath of culinary brilliance and the nature of an unchained inferno. Such meant that he could amass a great amount of flame and unleash it all at once in a devastating instant to turn the world around him into foodstuff. But that meant it was also easily spent as well. Every bit of fire mana Shiv channeled was consumed in its totality.
“And in the end, only a spark will remain of me.” The Nihilist chuckled. “A spark that does not burn on its own. I demand kindling. I demand perspective to latch on to and use as fuel. Wood for flame. Nothing can be obtained from nothing, even if nothing is the backdrop to all.”
“You know what, man? You can be as weird and creepy as you want to be, and I'll find you all the philosophies I can if it means you let me fry literally anything without even needing pots or pans.”
“How utilitarian.”
Shiv stared at his fire. “Was that an insult or something?”
“No. It’s a philosophy. Something that would feed me, if only anyone here truly believed in such a thing.”
“Huh,” Shiv muttered. “So wait, what is my actual philosophy?”
“Me, of course.”
He frowned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t believe in nothing.”
“The void does not require your belief to exist. The void is, but nihilism is not about the belief in nothing. It's about the recognition of nothing and the construction of meaning regardless of the nothing. You told Valor that you wanted to live by your own will, and not one of greater design, correct? You wish to be the arbiter of your own fate. And so you decide. And so you struggle. And so you believe in that which you bestow worth—and that alone.” The gray flame crackled with growing delight. “You are not moral because of morality itself. Yes, you feel bad for those who have died, but your feelings about the fallen and those who are caught in your battles are far diminished compared to what Adam might feel or what a normal person might suffer. It is not emotion that governs you. It is a want for the world to be one way—your way—and not some other way.”
The contrarian part of Shiv wanted to disagree, but that will to power the Nihilist spoke of was the deepest truth Shiv had ever known—even when he was a miserable street rat.
As he ruminated on that thought, the pillar to his primary philosophy hardened, and a flicker disturbed his flames as he used himself as enduring fuel. Once more, he wasn't the only source, and this skill was one that nourished itself upon the firewood of community more than a single being.
“Given enough time, a respectable flame might be built from you alone, but it is the clashing of philosophies and the myriad of worldviews that will truly see my fires rise to strike at the heartless heavens and boil the absence between worlds until it too is as if broth to be swallowed.”
And the Nihilist's words were only halfway a sardonic boast. Both it and Shiv truly believed that someday they would become powerful enough to reshape the foundational fabric of existence. After all, at some point down the line, somewhere along his countless futures, he finds himself capable of cleaving the arm free from a god.
“Shiv!” Roland's voice made Shiv turn. The Town Lord descended, and his fiery wings stilled until they fluttered like a flapping cape behind him. He landed not a few steps away from Shiv's Severed Shadow, and he looked upon the piece of jerky Shiv made from his own Biomancy with a tight expression. “Is that…”
“You wanna try?” Shiv offered.
Roland’s pupils dilated. “Are you offering me a strip of Biomancy ?”
“…Yeah. You can also have one of the potstickers or some of the stone and metal I fired, or maybe even the tray, but you better be fast.” The Dragon-Brokers and Descenders attacked everything Shiv cooked with curiosity and a genuine hunger. Tall Ben, for one, left Shiv staggered as all twelve of his heads began biting chunks out of the ground, gleefully swallowing without bothering to chew.
“I don't know about all yous,” Tall Ben proclaimed, “but I think our collective philosophies and such tastes pretty good!”
With how his gargantuan guests were tearing into this current batch of food like ravenous animals, Shiv had his physical body hide away a few potstickers for Rose, Roland, Uva, and Adam—if he could be made to eat at all. At the same time, he had resurrected once more, unleashing another body that he dispatched to man the block-length rolling pin and continue preparing food.
With more guests filtering in by the second, there were going to be a great many more mouths to feed.
Oh, wait, I can have ten bodies now. Got another bump to my Feat capacity, Shiv realized. Another vessel I can spend—oh, wait, I know what I’ll do with the extra. Merrielmel’s brother is still lost, and maybe I can get further into the Stranger’s Garden now. Yeah. Time for another run. I can do that while doing everything else. Between Legion of Self, the Nihilist, and the Harbinger, I don’t know which skill I like more.
“All of us are diminished from what we could be without the others,” the Harbinger answered.
The Nihilist scoffed. “You should like me the most. With me comes a new fire to inspire your art.”
“Even if some skills are more arrogant than others,” the Harbinger chided. “Over-pride is no virtue.”
“But is there a reason to be convinced otherwise?”
The Harbinger flared into shape around Shiv in a flash of crystallizing gold and enkindled flame. “A great many arrogances will see us betray ourselves and be brought low from victory while standing on the cusp.”
“But what is defeat to us if not another experience?” the Nihilistquestioned. “We learn from our defeats. We are fed and nourished by each demise. If nothing else, it is a novelty to enjoy, a thrill to indulge. An expression of our might upon the world, for we return while no one else can.”
While two of Shiv's skills began debating with one another, Shiv held out the Biomancy jerky to Roland. “Yeah, my skills like to do a lot of talking.”
“I know,” Roland whispered, looking at the Harbinger and the gray flame nearby—both focused on glaring the other down. “Doesn’t it get… agitating?”
“Honestly? I’m kind of used to it. And I like it.” Shiv smirked. “I feel like a one-man party.”
Roland let out a disbelieving laugh. “I see. You're a far different man than I. So much noise inside my own skull would drive me mad and see my focus perpetually compromised.”
“Well, good thing about being me: I never had too much problem dealing with chaos.”
With a mix of borderline reluctance and a measure of gratitude, Roland picked up the Biomancy jerky and tentatively nibbled a bit away. Suddenly, his body spasmed, and his expression went stiff. “That’s… Starhawk, that’s something else. I don’t know if I want to… Hm.” He swallowed. “I thought I wanted to retch for a moment, but I actually like it. It improved my Biomancy as well.”
“By how much?” Shiv asked.
“The notification says I can muster enough additional mana for an Initiate-Tier spell,” Roland answered.
“Not bad for a nibble, huh?”
“Not bad indeed.” Roland took a full bite this time, and he regarded Shiv with new eyes. “You know, Shiv, if I'm going to try to be different with you, if I'm going to try to make things right, I wish to be honest—even if it might make you feel uncomfortable. Do I have your permission to do so?”
“I prefer your honesty anyway. And frankly, I don't give a shit about feeling uncomfortable. Give it to me. What ugly truths or worries you got to spit?”
Roland spent a few seconds chewing, a few seconds too long. He was using the meal to delay his answer. When he finally gathered his resolve, he looked Shiv dead in the eye and said something the Deathless had heard time and time again. “You remind me of her.”
He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Veronica or Kathereine?”
Roland's expression darkened. “The Songbringer. Before her fall, before her decay. When she was still at her prime, at her best, when she was… I don’t know if I would ever call her a heroine, but an icon. When she still cared about something but her own influence.” His eyes went someplace distant. “I don't like to admit my pride aloud, but there are few Pathbearers that ever inspired envy in me. She was one. Her words forged peace, and her songs ended wars before they began. What you did with Marikos earlier… I didn't witness her at her rawest, at her earliest, but from what the Starhawk claimed, she was always a presence that knew how to play the heart like an instrument.”
And Shiv did just that as Roland spoke. He stared dead-on into the man's core and realized it was filling with as much anxiety as it was reverence. “And you're worried that I might use this as a weapon against you or someone else in the Gate? That I might fall like her?”
Roland had the decency to be ashamed. “I try to avoid it, but I can't shake it. I've seen what she can do. I know the true danger that a Pathbearer with prodigious Social Skills possesses. My skill is in war and combat. By shifting my levels, I can gain incredible evolutions for my Social Skills, but if I am to confess something, I never possessed the instinct for people, or even myself. Emotions are… difficult. And the mind and the heart are ever at odds.”
But as Roland spoke, Shiv noted something to his own amusement: his mind and heart were actually in accord. He was weaponizing his honesty and trying to gain a measure of sympathy from Shiv. “Hey Roland. What happened to honesty?”
Roland appeared startled. “What?”
“I see what you’re doing: this modesty shit. ‘Ah, I’m not good with feelings and social skills like you or your god-bitch great-great-grandma or whatever.’ You’re not that bad; it’s a real subtle game.”
“I wasn’t…” Roland’s expression cracked as he leaned in and stared at Shiv in disbelief. “I wasn’t really trying to—it just happened and—”
“You took the opportunity. Sneaky shit.” Shiv laughed and smacked Roland on the right side of his arm. The Town Lord cringed with discomfort. “Yeah, this is the kind of stuff Adam would never do. If Adam said all that, I’d buy it, but you, Roland? You got more hidden, don’t you? More skills. More tricks.”
“You make me sound like a scoundrel,” Roland said, almost blushing.
“Nah. Not a scoundrel. But enough of a snake—because being a good liar and a good fighter are actually pretty close to each other, aren’t they?”
Roland didn’t answer that. Instead, he decided to take another bite of Shiv’s jerky, who let him do so and sniffled. “You wanna show me how good of a liar you are?”
Roland paused mid-bite. “Spar?”
“Yeah, sure. Call it what you want. Call it venting our negative emotions. Call it my humbling or my revenge. I wanna see you for what you are: and I want to know if I have what it takes to kick your ass.”
“Shiv,” Roland began, trying to sound nice. “You’ve come a long way in a very short time.”
“But.”
“I didn’t say bu.”
“You thought it.”
Roland’s face twitched—he shifted one of his golden locks aside. “That’s just an assumption.”
“It’s right.”
Roland shook his head. “Certainty is an insidious killer.”
“Really? You gonna teach me why?”
“Are you determined to insist?” Roland asked, a hint of seriousness creeping into his voice.
Shiv looked over his shoulder at the Descenders and Brokers—who were eating and watching the twosome—and at Uva’s elongated head, suddenly staring down at him from the skies above. “Yeah. I think I am. I think I’m going to have one of my bodies keep making more food—and frying everything I can get my hands on, another studying, another in the Fairwoods, another with the Republic, another to take a new swing at the Stranger and Merrielmel’s brother… Which still leaves plenty of bodies I can throw at you.” He smirked. “You got your bullshit, and I got mine. It’s not my fault you can’t clone yourself and use several forms at the same time.” At that, Roland’s eyes glittered with mockery. “Ah, fuck, you can.”
“Another assumption, Deathless.”
“Eat my shit, Dread Horizon.”
“A day,” Roland said.
“Hm?”
“A day to prepare. A day for you to reconsider—and seek counsel from those around you. Speak to Valor. Speak to your love. Speak to Jessica. They’ll all tell you something similar, I suspect. But if you are certain…” Roland’s eyes turned predatory—like a hawk’s. “Then I will spare you from neither shame nor defeat.”
Shiv leaned down, bowing deep so he could meet Roland eye to eye. “Well. Same goes the other way: If I get my hands on you, Roland, I promise not to kill you. But I wanna be honest too: I still got a lot of spite in the basement of my heart, and it wants to come out.”
“I fear you will need to dig deeper, for there will be more spite and misery to come,” Roland replied. He took another big bite out of Shiv’s jerky. “Now. Can you make me another?”
Shiv kept his gaze locked on Roland as he burned another piece free from his Biomancy. “You can have as much as you godsdamned want, Master Arrow. Consider this a pre-apology for what I’m going to do.”
Roland hummed. “I’ll consider it a fee instead.”
“A fee?”
“I don’t teach lessons for free.”
“Heh. Fucker.”